


Blood Like Wine

by Dexterous_Sinistrous



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Witcher, Blood Drinking, Canon-Typical Violence, Duchess Lydia, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Violence, Prince Stiles, Stiles and Lydia Are Cousins, Vampire Boyd, Vampire Derek Hale, Witcher Allison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-11 09:55:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15312972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dexterous_Sinistrous/pseuds/Dexterous_Sinistrous
Summary: “The bite can be,” Boyd paused, choosing his words carefully. “The bite can have a euphoric feeling to it, for humans,” he finally explained to Allison. “But it’s rare, and not often an easy thing to create.”“You have to create the feeling?” Allison asked.Boyd looked to Derek. “You formed a bond with him, didn’t you?”Derek hesitated, knowing Boyd’s stance on the issue. He silently nodded.“You know that’s forbidden with humans,” Boyd pressed. “If the Elder knew— Derek, you’re risking everything for a human.” He observed his friend. “You hate humans.”“He’s different,” Derek softly argued, refusing to look at Boyd.~*~Or, the one were Derek is a Higher Vampire, a recluse in human society, until he meets Stiles—a young man with a mysterious past who shows no fear of Derek or his kind.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheCriminal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCriminal/gifts).



> This is for the lovely Meg. HA! You thought I wasn't going to write you anything for your birthday, (joke is on you!).
> 
> This AU is based off of the Witcher 3 DLC Blood and Wine. Derek is a Higher Vampire, based off of Dettlaff van der Eretein. And Stiles is his mysterious lover, based off of Syanna, (except not a total douche, cause she needed WAY more character development than she had to get me to forgive her for what she did). Just so you know, this follows the basis for the DLC, but it is not the same, but will technically contain spoilers.
> 
> And as a fun little side note, vampires in the Witcher world cannot turn humans--they are a separate species that came to the world when the Spheres merged worlds together.
> 
> The Unseen Elder is suggested to be one of the eldest vampires, and he guards the gateway between the world where the series takes place, and the one where the vampires originated from. He will be referred to/mentioned later on in the story.
> 
> For my birthday, Meg ([kilaem](kilaem.tumblr.com)) created some LOVELY fanart of this AU. Her [Blood and Wine](http://kilaem.tumblr.com/post/174070530479) art and [Hearts of Stone](http://kilaem.tumblr.com/post/174070529529) art.

Derek van der Hale—the Beast of Beauclair, they muttered in hushed whispers. He was a monster, something to fear. Even before the murders happened, people feared him on a regular basis. He had worked hard to suppress his anger—his basic animal urges to mame and kill those that would wrong him.

 _Humans_. Derek never understood them, nor did he want to. He found them to be basic creatures, but with pettiness and cruelty that was lacking in so many other species.

But that was before Stiles.

Stiles was wildly different from any human Derek had ever known. He was young but intelligent, and it showed when he dealt with the many people trying to win one over on him. He had been unafraid of Derek the night they met in the tavern.

Stiles had warmly seated himself next to Derek, gaining the older man’s attention with little difficulty. To Derek, Stiles was more than just beautiful—a frail human who showed no fear of another—he was brave. Bold.

It was strange for Derek to experience a human like Stiles.

Stiles spoke the truth to Derek, his heartbeat light and unhindered by the guilt of lies. He admitted his attraction to Derek.

When Derek did not answer, Stiles did not press. Instead he let his curiosity guide him. Stiles knew Derek wasn’t human, and it intrigued him further. He didn’t follow Derek that first night, but after several nights of sleeplessness and the lingering feeling of Derek’s gaze on him, he felt compelled to follow Derek.

Derek was aware of Stiles tracking him that night. He had grown accustomed to listening for Stiles’ heartbeat, making it easy to pinpoint the human among any crowd. He listened to the pattern of beating, how fast it was getting the more turns Derek took.

Stiles, in his bravery—or foolishness, followed Derek down the darkened alleyway.

Derek made a point of jumping out at Stiles, baring his fangs at the human in an attempt to solicit the same response he always got—terror.

Only this time, Stiles blankly stared back at Derek, a faint interest covering his features. But no fear present. His heartbeat was fast but not jackhammering with fright; his pupils dilated as he stared at Derek.

It was the first time someone had dare look at Derek’s altered form with interest.

That was how they wound up back at Derek’s room, naked and bared to one another.

The blankets were never something Derek needed, his body heat enough to keep him warm even through the coldest of nights. He made use of the material this time, accommodating Stiles’ human body and the warmth it needed. The sheets were wrapped around their waists and legs, conjoining them together.

Stiles felt like a heaven Derek had never known. He calmed Derek, but also excited him.

Derek held Stiles close, uncertain about what he felt. His arms were wrapped around Stiles, their chests pressed together as they exchanged kisses. He cradled Stiles’ head in his hands with great ease, overly aware of how fragile he was.

Something was slowly winding tight in Derek’s chest. He couldn’t fathom a tomorrow without Stiles now that he had him. It made him wonder if the humans’ foolish belief of soulmates could possibly be true.

Derek took Stiles apart in a million pieces, and Stiles returned the favor.

In the midst of the night, Stiles slept as if it had been for the first time in months.

Derek, for his part, had forgone sleep. He couldn’t stop watching Stiles. He had never seen a human sleep up close before—he never found himself wanting to. He reached a hand out, brushing his blunted fingertips against the the curve of Stiles’ face, mesmerized by the young man’s features. He pressed a chaste kiss to Stiles’ naked shoulder, slipping from the bed as he left the human to sleep.

Stiles woke to Derek sketching him. He smiled when Derek looked at him, pressing his face into the pillow to hide his blush.

Derek had been afraid of missing Stiles’ face when he left. He convinced himself of the inevitable parting they would suffer. He wasn’t a fool, understanding that Stiles was human, and would eventually die at the tender age that human’s did, if he had even bothered to stay. It would seem long to humans, the short decades that aged them, but it was only another passage of time for Derek.

But Stiles stayed, despite Derek’s rationale that he wouldn’t. He seemed unafraid of his mortality, knowing that any day could arguably be his last. He spent the days pulling Derek from his solitude, just as he spent his nights in bed with Derek.

They were both enigmas, though neither pushed or prodded for more than the other was willing to give.

~*~

“Your accent,” Derek thoughtfully started one night. His hand was tracing the curve of Stiles’ spine.

“Nilfgaardian,” Stiles artfully replied with an uninterested shrug.

Derek moved his hand to caress Stiles’ shoulder. “You slip sometimes,” he explained. He felt Stiles’ head move against his chest.

“Good to know,” Stiles answered, unwilling to utter a lie to Derek. “It could get me killed, if I’m not careful.”

Derek allowed the silence to grow between them.

“Do you care?” Stiles softly asked.

“My accent isn’t real,” Derek offered. He had developed one over the years, though he wasn’t even sure where it had articulated from. He imagined it was a combination of many. “I don’t care which one you take. If you say it’s Nilfgaardian, it’s Nilfgaardian.”

Stiles moved, leaning up on his elbow as he turned to look at Derek. He looked endeared, as if Derek’s words affected him more than they should have. He kissed Derek instead of vocalizing his emotions.

~*~

Stiles couldn’t remember the last time he spent a night without worry or concern. He thought of himself as lucky, finding Derek like he had. He found his anger and want of revenge waning with every day he spent with Derek. He was building a life instead of trying to regain the one taken from him—and he liked this life better.

Derek did not sneer at Stiles with contempt. He did not hurt Stiles, for any reason. He did not call him a curse. He adored Stiles, showering him in gifts and tenderness Stiles had never known before.

Stiles was more than happy to keep his life with Derek, never wishing to return to Beauclair or the Duchy. He did find himself thinking about his father, and wondering what had become of him since the abdication.

“Could you … find someone, if I asked?” Stiles absently asked one evening. He was sprawled out in front of the fireplace, Derek laying by his side. He was laying on his stomach, book propped open on the floor. He had smiled when Derek lay beside him, just for them to have each other’s company.

Derek slowly opened his eyes, calmly looking at Stiles. “With the intent to …?”

“My father,” Stiles honestly admitted. “I wanted to know he was well. You’d just have to check in on him, nothing more.”

Derek frowned. “You know where he is?”

Stiles faintly shrugged. “Roughly.”

“Then why would you need me to find him?” Derek asked.

Stiles sighed. “It’s a long and complicated history,” he offered. “I can’t go home—” he faintly laughed. “I find myself not wanting to go home the longer I’m with you, actually. None of that really seems to matter any longer.”

Derek turned onto his side, observing Stiles carefully as he propped his head up in his hand. “But you want to know that he’s well.”

Stiles nodded. “It was just a thought,” he offered.

“I can,” Derek finally answered. “If you want me to,” he added.

Stiles looked at Derek. He offered a small smile, leaning in quickly to press a kiss to Derek’s lips. “One day,” he answered.

~*~

“What do you want?” Stiles sharply demanded of the men blocking his escape.

“You put out feelers for information on the Heart of Toussaint,” one of the thieves uttered.

“What of it?” Stiles rolled his eyes at the man. “It’s a priceless gem.”

“But see, you knew an awful lot about it to just want a priceless gem,” the thief countered. “Like you’ve seen it before.”

Stiles took a calculated step backwards. “I’m very good at research,” he sarcastically stated.

“The only person who really knows what the Heart looks like is the royal family,” the thief continued. “Funny, the Heart went missing with the Cursed Prince.” He mindlessly scratched at his chin. “Where are you from again?”

Stiles laughed in the thief’s face. He was glad none of them could hear his quickened heartbeat. “If I was a Duchy Prince, I think I’d be rolling in too many gems to care about the Heart.”

One of the thief’s goons grabbed Stiles’ arm when he tried to walk away.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Stiles lowly stated as a tried to pull his arm out of the man’s grasp. He startled a little when they pulled a knife on him. The cut on his arm wasn’t big, but it was large enough to bleed a decent amount—enough for Derek to sense. “Oh,” he softly stated, looking from the blood on the blade to the men around him. “You poor fools. You just made the biggest mistake of your lives,” he barely uttered when Derek attacked the men.

~*~

Derek cleaned Stiles’ wound, his hands steady and sure as he wiped the blood away.

Stiles watched Derek, his eyes tracking the vampire’s actions. He wondered how Derek seemed so calm and collected, when he was practically bleeding all over him. “Does my blood smell bad?” He finally asked as Derek wrapped a clean cloth around his forearm.

Derek paused his movements, looking up at Stiles. “What?” He seemed puzzled by Stiles’ inquiry.

“You don’t seem … affected,” Stiles explained, gesturing at the blood soaked bandages.

Derek looked from the soiled bandages to Stiles. “I don’t need to feed in order to live,” he explained. “Lesser vampires are vulnerable to their hunger. I don’t have that basic urge.”

Stiles made a face. “Then why are there so many stories?”

Derek faintly snorted as he finished wrapping Stiles’ wound. “You humans are fascinated by it.”

Stiles frowned. “What is it like then? Why bother feeding if you don’t need to?”

Derek’s face twisted into slight displeasure. “Why do you humans drink alcohol?”

Stiles thought about Derek’s point. “Because we like how it makes us feel,” he answered. “Plus, the right alcohol can have … exquisite taste.”

Derek faintly smiled at that, reaching a hand out to cup Stiles’ cheek. He pressed a delicate kiss to Stiles’ lips. “It’s much the same for vampires,” he spoke into their kiss. He trailed the softest of kisses across Stiles’ cheek, moving to place his lips on Stiles’ neck—on his pulsepoint. “And your blood doesn’t stink,” he added, his voice hoarse, heavily laced with desire. His fangs itched to sink into Stiles’ skin and taste the blood he had forced himself to forgo. But he refused to use Stiles that way.

“It doesn’t?” Stiles softly asked, his hands reaching out to hold onto Derek’s arms.

“No,” Derek lightly chuckled when Stiles’s legs wrapped around his waist. He let Stiles pull him in close, pulling back just far enough to look at Stiles’ face when he heard his name moaned. “Your blood smells _exquisite_ , Stiles. Like the rest of you,” he admitted.

Stiles reclined back onto the bed, pulling Derek along with him.

~*~

Stiles clung to Derek, desperate to keep feeling the pleasure they shared, his fingers digging down into the muscles of Derek’s back as he hung on. He worked his hips to meet Derek’s thrusts, his legs shaking as his mind began to fall apart all over again. “Please,” he begged, reaching a trembling hand up to bury in Derek’s hair, pressing Derek’s face into the curve of his neck.

Derek grazed his fangs along the taut skin of Stiles’ neck, his gut burning with want. He wanted to hold Stiles down, to pin him between his fangs and keep him there. He wanted to build a nest around Stiles—a fortress worthy of protecting him from the next fool that tried to harm him. He had never felt such primal urges burning in his gut. Not before he met Stiles, at least.

“Bite me,” Stiles breathily moaned against Derek’s ear.

It was all the permission Derek needed before he bit down hard, sinking his fangs into Stiles’ soft flesh.

Stiles gasped loudly, his body stilling against Derek’s.

Derek held Stiles down as he rutted into him, his hips cantering, forcing a few straying moans to hiccup from Stiles’ chest. His mind was clouded with the bloodlust, the taste of copper fading into something unique and tender. It was Stiles’ unique scent flooding his senses as he slowly fed from Stiles’ pulsepoint.

Stiles blissfully caressed his hands up and down Derek’s back, easing his body against his as they both laxed into the bed—into an exhausted pile of limbs.

Derek retracted his fangs with ease. His tongue chased the lingering taste of Stiles’ blood in his mouth, the tip of his tongue running along his teeth, through the inside of his lips. He bent his head down, his tongue lapping at the blood trickling from the grooves where his fangs had pierced through Stiles’ skin.

Stiles softly moaned, his neck tender in the wake of Derek’s fangs.

“You have no idea,” Derek softly uttered, a faint rumble coming from his chest. “Stiles, you have no idea,” he repeated, still amazed at how different Stiles’ blood tasted than any other he had sampled through the years. Those times had been for necessity, wounds he needed healing, or exhaustion he needed treated faster than rest could remedy. He never had a desire for blood—but Stiles’ called to him.

Stiles tiredly hummed out an agreement. His body was tingling all over, as if he was on the precipice of orgasming all over again. “Good year?” He lightly chuckled.

“A very good year,” Derek joked back, pressing a fleeting kiss to the bite mark.

Stiles smiled up at Derek, running his hands through Derek’s hair. “I love you,” he breathlessly admitted.

Derek could hear the steady drumming of Stiles’ heart, and how true his words were.

~*~

All was perfect.

Their days passed far away from the prying eyes of others, nights peacefully spent lounging in the most wayside of taverns. They roamed the crossroads of Metinna, finding a calm in their solitude as they traveled through Nazair.

It seemed not long had passed before Stiles received the first letter from an unknown penmanship. He hid the letter’s contents from Derek, not wishing to worry him. But he knew he would have to handle the situation soon.

Deucalion and his band of miscreants demanded to meet with Stiles—alone. They threatened Stiles’ father should Derek make an appearance.

Normally, Stiles would ignore such a threat. But then he noticed the wax seal’s imprint. It belonged to his father—he had seen the seals on letters addressed to his mother. His father’s royal seal would have been destroyed when he abdicated from the throne, but his personal seal was John’s own to keep.

Stiles was seething when Deucalion slid the ring across the table to play on display. He snatched the ring up, keeping it enclosed in his fist. “I’ll kill you—”

“Our men don’t hear from us, your father will be found in a week, his corpse bloated with rot, hanging from a crossroad’s tree,” Deucalion countered.

Stiles’ eyes widened at that threat.

“It wasn’t that hard to find the former Duke of Toussaint,” Deucalion answered. “You refuse to help, and it’s not just your father we’ll hang,” he began, delivering his threat in a low, menacious tone. “That animal you play house with will meet a rather colorful end as well.”

Stiles turned to glare at the man. “You know what happened to the last man that threatened me?”

“We know what those knights got away with, your _highness_ ,” Ennis mockingly uttered, his hand pulling at the waist of his own belt in a more than vulgar suggestion.

Stiles refused to rise to such a taunting heckle. “The last men to threaten me with something like _this_ ,” he softly started as he looked at Deucalion. “They’re nothing but blood on the floor,” he laughed in the man’s face. “And the walls—and I even think on the ceilings, too.”

“Those were amateur highwaymen,” Deucalion calmly stated. “How do you think your pet will do against a witcher?”

Stiles’ smile dropped some. “A witcher wouldn’t take that contract—”

“A witcher does anything for gold,” Kali countered. “Just like you’ll fuck _anything_ for power, it seems,” she laughed at Stiles.

Stiles was silent as he contemplated his next course of action. “Even if I did agree to this,” he started. “He would never let me leave his side without an explanation.”

Deucalion produced a small vial from his pocket. “Drink this, and have him suck on your neck a bit.”

Stiles looked at the vial.

“It will knock him out long enough for us to all get out of here,” Deucalion elaborated.

“How do I know you’re not lying, and it won’t kill him?” Stiles asked.

A few of them laughed at that.

Deucalion smiled at Stiles. “You honestly think you could survive taking something that would kill a High Vampire?”

Stiles glared at him. He snatched the vial from Deucalion. “If anything happens to him or my father—”

“Blood all over the place,” Deucalion concluded.

~*~

Stiles forced down the contents of the small vial. He gagged at the taste, not knowing what the mixture was. He dared to grab the bottle of wine they had yet to finish, drinking large swigs of it.

It helped.

Stiles was thankful that Derek hadn’t been gone long. He kissed Derek in welcome—a gentle, soft kiss that expressed how much he missed him. Really, how much he was going to miss him.

“Are you alright?” Derek softly asked, his voice low and at peace. He cradled Stiles’ head in his hands, his thumb brushing against the curve of Stiles’ cheekbone.

“I missed you,” Stiles honestly stated. “That’s all,” he added with a smile.

“A friend needed help,” Derek replied.

Stiles arched an eyebrow at him.

Derek lightly chuckled. “Honest,” he answered. “But that’s all taken care of now.”

“Good,” Stiles answered with a smile, pulling Derek into a searing kiss as he ushered them back to the bed.

~*~

Derek always tensed when Stiles offered him blood. He never wanted Stiles to feel obligated, but found his temptation to follow such a request overpowering.

The darkest part of Derek’s being—the vampire, as humans called it—needed the vindication. It needed to sink its fangs into prey.

But it was more than that with Stiles. The bond Derek had formed with Stiles was far reaching. It was closer to a bond between Derek’s own kind, something that had been believed to be impossible with a human.

It didn’t surprise Derek, though—Stiles was extraordinary.

And the act of sinking his fangs into Stiles’ neck brought them both to such intense heights of pleasure.

Stiles never wanted Derek to pull away in uncertainty when he bared his neck. Though his guilt this time was deeper felt, twisting his insides.

Afterwards, as they lay among the strewed sheets; naked bodies pressed against one another as they caught their breath, Stiles noticed how Derek grew tired. He had never noticed Derek to fall asleep before him—nor to sleep after him.

“Are you alright?” Stiles asked, wanting to know that Derek wasn’t experiencing anything more than the drowsiness.

“Fine,” Derek sleepily stated. “I must have spent more energy than I thought.” He shifted his body to curl into Stiles’ side. He tightened his arm around Stiles, his hand brushing against Stiles’ naked hip. “Nothing to worry about,” he reassured Stiles.

Stiles nodded his head, resting his cheek against Derek’s shoulder as his arm hooked around Derek’s waist. “Tell me about your friend,” he started, wanting to listen to Derek’s voice a little while longer—before he had to say his final goodbye.

Derek softly snorted at Stiles’ inquiry, his eyes closed as he listened to Stiles’ steady heartbeat. “What would you like to know?”

“Would this friend like me?” Stiles asked.

Derek made a soft pondering noise.

“Be nice,” Stiles answered.

“He does,” Derek lightly replied. “I’ve told him much about you.”

“Only the nice things,” Stiles pressed.

“Only the true things,” Derek corrected. “He knows how much I adore you.”

“Adore me,” Stiles echoed, turning his head to look up at Derek.

Derek opened one eye to observe Stiles’ movement.

“Is that all?” He lightly laughed.

Derek’s expression softened into a serious one, opening both his eyes to see Stiles undistorted. His eyes flickered back and forth as his gaze surveyed across Stiles’ features. He knew the truth, and he was certain Boyd had figured it out from the manner in which he spoke of Stiles. “I suppose I misspoke,” he admitted.

Stiles softly snorted, tapping a hand against Derek’s chest to silence what he thought was teasing, leaning his head back down on Derek’s chest. “You’re a tease.”

“I meant to say, he knows how much I love you,” Derek confessed.

Stiles’ movements were sluggish, almost stilled as he processed that he heard Derek correctly. He turned his head, looking up at Derek. “You think I’m worth that?” his voice weakly asked, the words almost lost even among the muffled sounds of the other patrons in the tavern.

“So much more than that,” Derek answered. His hand brushed over Stiles’ forehead, his fingertips touching the jagged dig of the scar running through Stiles’ eyebrow. He was glad Stiles didn’t pull back from the touch, aware of how sensitive Stiles felt about the scar. He still didn’t know who wounded Stiles enough to cause him such pains still, but he hoped he’d never meet the person—for their sake. “I didn’t think I was capable of loving,” he softly added. “But you are so remarkable, Stiles.”

Stiles wearily smiled up at Derek. “How so?”

“You made it capable for me to love,” Derek replied. “And I do love you, Stiles.”

“I love you, too, Derek,” Stiles confessed, pressing a kiss to Derek’s lips.

~*~

Derek woke to Stiles missing. His body was sluggish in his movements, something strange still in his system even after sleep. He looked around the room, noticing that Stiles’ riding cloak was gone.

There was no note. Nothing that suggested there was a struggle.

Hours passed, with no sign of Stiles’ return.

Derek paced for those hours, worry and aggression in his every step as he went longer and longer without Stiles. There was no letter, no explanation of where he had gone, unlike every other time Stiles would venture out alone.

It became painfully obvious, when the hours turned to days, that Stiles was not returning.

Derek mourned, like a wounded animal. He moved away from the city—from their room in the tavern—knowing that his anger could lead to the worst of outcomes for the most unsuspecting of humans. He was in no state to be near anyone, riddled with grief from Stiles’ sudden loss. He spent months looking for Stiles, all to no avail.

Whoever took Stiles had known what they were doing—they knew how to hide Stiles from him. They knew how to weaken his senses and render him practically useless.

Derek’s distraught turned to anger when the first letter found him almost a year later. He threw money at the errand boy, hoping it would force the human away from him. He was glad he had when he read the letter’s contents.

An unknown penmanship threatened Stiles’ wellbeing, demanding Derek do as they say or Stiles’ life would end in the most vulgar of manners.

Derek’s blood ran cold. His fangs itched for flesh to tear; his claws burned to be buried in someone’s chest for daring such a threat.

The letter demanded Derek travel to Beauclair, and murder three former knights of the Duchy, or else Stiles would be handed back to Derek in pieces.

Derek found the first knight with no difficulty.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of this chapter, the scene at Dun Tynne in particular is accredited to kilaem, from her post with the artwork.

Derek had been against allowing the witcher to help. He had only one more target to kill, and then Stiles would be freed. He didn’t care for the knights, or the stories that Boyd tried to sway him with. He could see into the men’s hearts; he could taste the guilt and venom in their blood. He knew they were repenting for sins they knew they couldn’t cleanse their hands of.

Perhaps, Derek thought, he was doing some good. If it was for Stiles, it was worth every mangled corpse he left to rot. But it also brought justice to men who long escaped punishment.

Allison was looking at the letters the kidnappers had sent, noticing that the penmanship was clean, aristocratic in nature. She also noted the bloodstains on the parchment—on the letter that mentioned the waning state of Stiles’ wellbeing.

“You know they have him?” Allison asked, looking up at the several drawings Derek had strewed across the workshop’s table.

The portraits were of a young man—Allison assumed it was Stiles. Though, there was something about him that looked familiar. It was as if Allison had seen him before, or something of his likeness.

“They sent it with his blood staining it,” Derek answered, anger lacing his voice.

Boyd carefully watched Derek’s pacing form.

“And you know that it’s his … how?” Argent pressed, though she was certain she already knew the answer.

“Don’t play coy,” Derek snapped at Allison as he turned to look at her. “We both know the answer to that question,  _ witcher _ .”

“You’ve been feeding off him then,” Allison concluded.

Derek ignored Allison, turning his back on the woman.

“Perhaps Stiles is safer with these ‘kidnappers’ then,” Allison commented.

Boyd moved between Allison and Derek, using himself as an obstacle for Derek to get over. “Derek, control yourself,” he harshly uttered at his friend, pushing Derek back and away from Allison. “Trying to tear her apart isn’t going to help her trust you.”

“I don’t trust her,” Derek angrily snapped, his fangs visible even with the dim light from the candle.

“Noted,” Allison commented with no interest. “That being said, you’ve been feeding on a human.” She looked to Boyd. “You told me he didn’t drink blood.”

“He didn’t,” Boyd answered, looking at Derek.

“I don’t crave it like others do,” Derek commented. He looked at Allison. “It’s not a necessity for me.”

“Then you just …  _ gorged  _ yourself because you could?” Allison asked.

“We don’t have to feed on humans to  _ live _ ,” Boyd corrected Allison’s snide remark. “Some of us are more susceptible to our basic urges.” He looked at Derek. “I’ve known Derek to not need it.”

Derek looked away from Boyd.

Boyd added, “For us, blood is similar to what you humans think of as a flavor of wine.”

“So Derek has been sampling Stiles for years,” Allison replied. “That doesn’t exactly paint an enticing picture, Boyd.”

“I never bit Stiles until he begged me to,” Derek huffed in anger. “After that … I never bit him unless he asked,” he added in a softer tone, sorrowful at recalling the memories—reminders of what was missing.

“The bite can be,” Boyd paused, choosing his words carefully. “The bite can have a euphoric feeling to it, for humans,” he finally explained to Allison. “But it’s rare, and not often an easy thing to create.”

“You have to create the feeling?” Allison asked.

Boyd looked to Derek. “You formed a bond with him, didn’t you?”

Derek hesitated, knowing Boyd’s stance on the issue. He silently nodded.

“You know that’s forbidden with humans,” Boyd pressed. “If the Elder knew— Derek, you’re risking everything for a human.” He observed his friend. “You hate humans.”

“He’s different,” Derek softly argued, refusing to look at Boyd.

Allison observed the two vampires. She sighed, knowing that she was going to regret offering assistance to Derek—he was unpredictable, and dead set on getting this Stiles back, which made him dangerous. “Listen, the one clue we have to go on is this Mandragora,” she finally explained.

Derek turned to look at Allison. “How is a party involving the arts going to solve this?”

“There is a Cintrian who has been sent there to steal a jewel,” Boyd offered in explanation. “We need him to answer questions about the orchestrator of this plot.”

“They’ll be there?” Derek asked, his attention suddenly alert with interest at the discovery.

“We’re not sure,” Allison pressed. “We need him alive to ask him questions though,” she added as a warning.

“Once Allison questions the man, we can join her,” Boyd offered.

“No,” Allison firmly stated.

Derek turned a glare on Allison.

“The Duchess will be with me,” Allison rationalized. “I’d rather avoid unwanted complications. I will meet you back here once I’ve gotten to the bottom of this.” She had a staring match with Derek, neither one of them softening their glares. “I’ll give you the information I get, once I’ve determined that you won’t overreact.”

Derek took a calculated steps towards Allison. “I will trust Boyd’s word that you are a friend,” he started, his tone low and cold of emotion. “But if  _ anything _ happens to Stiles, I will not stop hunting you, witcher. There will not be a day when you feel free of my presence.”

~*~

Allison did her best not to glare at Boyd and Derek from across the table. She knew that Lydia was watching them all, determined to get to the bottom of the mystery. She had heard how serious Lydia was about Mieczysław’s safety, despite how clear it was that he orchestrated the whole plot.

The Heart of Toussaint had belonged to Mieczysław’s mother. It was a gift from the Duke to his late wife, a treasured jewel that was priceless in sentimental value, and even greater monetary. Mieczysław was given the jewel after his mother’s passing, a small token to remember her by. The jewel had gone missing with the prince when he was escorted from the Duchy.

Many believed Mieczysław sold the jewel, uncaring for its sentiment. But Lydia believed it had been stolen, knowing that Mieczysław loved his mother dearly and would not just part so easily with his last connection to her.

Lydia made Allison swear Mieczysław wouldn’t be hurt, in any manner. Her tone grew darker—more serious—when she stated that it wasn’t a request, but a command that Mieczysław be returned to her, completely unharmed.

Allison saw how blind Lydia was to the truth: Mieczysław was the puppeteer pulling on the strings, not a marionette.

Regardless, if Allison was to keep her word, she had to prevent Derek from discovering the truth, uncertain Boyd could stop him from attacking Mieczysław on the spot.

“Looks like we need another bottle of wine,” Allison commented, moving to stand as she gained the table’s attention. “Boyd, want to help me with that.” It wasn’t a question.

Boyd rose calmly, aware of Derek’s gaze following them both.

“Derek,” Lydia’s voice sweetly started, drawing the man’s attention. “Where in Nazair are you from?”

When Allison and Boyd were far enough away, Allison whirled around to face the vampire. “Are you crazy bringing Derek here?” She demanded. “He is dangerous, and you were supposed to  _ watch him _ .”

“Derek is only dangerous to those that have threatened his Stiles,” Boyd commented.

“What would he have done if the Cintrian was standing there with me?” Allison asked. “Flown into a rage and killed the man—in front of the Duchess?”

“I’ll admit, Derek is prone to acting on his emotions,” Boyd answered.

Allison’s expression was the opposite of amused at Boyd’s comment.

“But Derek trusts you to solve this,” Boyd countered. “He trusts that he will not have to kill again. Once he has Stiles back, safe from harm, he will no longer be a concern in this.”

“He  _ is  _ the Beast of Beauclair, Boyd,” Allison sharply stated. “He  _ is  _ the concern in all this.” She paced some in annoyance.

“My friend, please,” Boyd calmly addressed Allison, reaching a hand out to stop her. “I know Derek to be a good man. He has never loved another before, and this Stiles changed him.”

“If Stiles is the only person Derek’s ever loved, don’t you think he’s going to be worse in his reaction?” Allison countered.

“Do you trust me to make the right decisions?” Boyd suddenly asked.

Allison looked at Boyd. “Yes.”

“Then trust in me that Derek is even more capable,” Boyd replied. “What you’ve seen of Derek is the basic primal urges vampires have. It’s something that I’ve never seen in Derek before—these people brought that out by harming someone he loved.” He sighed. “I know you to speak with monsters before killing them without question. Can you not do Derek the same courtesy?”

Allison released a heavy breath, reluctantly nodding.

They returned to the table, hearing Lydia’s giggle as they approached.

“I thank you, Derek, for bringing back such fond memories,” Lydia smiled at him.

For his part, Derek looked like a normal man, nothing supernatural or otherworldly about him. He was faintly smiling, his features softened by his calm demeanor. He appeared calm, the rage that was brewing beneath the surface was completely unknown.

Derek looked at Allison, giving a light nod of his head towards her.

“I regret to say that Allison and I will not be able to join you for a second bottle,” Lydia commented as she rose to stand. “I thank you for your company, but we must retire.” She moved to take Allison’s arm, pleased that the witcher obliged her.

Allison waited for them to be far enough away from the vampires before asking Lydia, “And how was your conversation with Derek?”

“Pleasant,” Lydia honestly answered. “He’s a wonderful man,” she added as an afterthought.

“And you know that from one conversation?” Allison pressed.

“I’ve a good sense of the nature of those I meet,” Lydia offered. “I would not survive in my Court for even a week if I did not.”

“And what’s his nature?” Allison asked, wishing for an honest first opinion of Derek without the knowledge of what he was.

“Honestly?” Lydia started, a frown pulling at her features. “He’s … sensitive,” she confessed. “Sad, even. He carries a great tragedy deep within, and a guilt that even he does not understand, I think.” She looked at Allison. “He’s a good man, but lost—which in turn makes him appear very grim.”

The irony of Lydia’s opinion was glaring. But Allison took her words to heart—perhaps she could change Derek’s fate afterall, if he was as good a man as Lydia suspected.

“Now,” Lydia broached her main purpose for their parting. “I wish to know that you are certain of your task ahead.”

Allison looked at Lydia. “I’m to go to Dun Tynne,” she answered.

“And to guarantee Mieczysław’s safe return to the palace,” Lydia pressed.

“I know,” Allison firmly stated. “I’ll try my best. But he may not be willing.”

“Convince him,” Lydia sharply stated. “I will not have my beloved cousin treated like some criminal for a misunderstanding.”

“If he is behind these killings,” Allison started.

“Then he will be punished according to the law,” Lydia replied before Allison could finish. “But I will not see him dragged through the mud again—not while I can prevent it.”

~*~

The guard’s body tumbled down the stairs, lifeless, as Derek panted for breath against the door. The stench of blood lingering in the air was dizzying, but he paid it little attention. Blood never affected him the way it had with Boyd for a time, never something so addicting that it was worth losing himself to it—even when Stiles offered up his own. His claws retracted as he took a moment to collect himself, his features shrinking back to human, but Derek kept his eyes shut for just a few seconds more as he pushed the door open.

And there he stood.

It was like a dream Derek had for so many nights. He would fight his way through an army, rushing to find Stiles in the highest tower of the fortress. He always woke a second before reaching him. But this was real.

“Stiles!” Derek rushed forward, taking his face in his hands, scanning him intently for injuries — yet all he could find was the evidence of the years that passed and the reminder of how quickly humans aged. “Are… Are you hurt? If any of them…”

“You know me. I’d never let them hurt me,” Stiles smiled weakly, his voice wavering in disbelief. His accent was music to Derek’s ears as his arms curled around Derek’s waist, clutching onto him. “I just waited for you to come.”

“I… I didn’t know where to look,” Derek pulled Stiles into his arms without a second of hesitation, holding him as tightly as he could without hurting him, “They threatened to kill you… I…” The words caught in his throat and Derek pulled back to look at Stiles, before his own shame took over and he could no longer meet his eye. “Forgive me. I failed you.”

“No, no you—” Stiles cut himself off as Boyd and that witcher, Allison, ran into the room, a frown forming on his brow as he warily took them in.

Derek could not help his gaze, drawn as it was to Stiles, only half paying attention to the words the other two shared.

“ _... Told me where I’d find Mieczyslaw... _ ”

Derek’s own part in this was fulfilled, he had Stiles once more, and he could stop the killings forced upon him. But watching Stiles’ expression go carefully blank pulled Derek into the words being exchanged.

“Said he was in a room with a tower… very one we’re in right now. Which, incidentally, looks nothing like a prison cell,” Allison spoke, staring fixedly at the roaring fireplace, while Boyd’s attention shifted over to Derek and Stiles. “And it just so happens there’s a carafe full of wine here. Bet its stolen Sangreal.”

Derek noticed the roll of Stiles’ eyes and the tick in his jaw, how tightly he was holding himself now compared to how relaxed he was when it was just them in the room. He could practically see the gears turning in Stiles’ head, but he could not guess what the man was thinking. But by his expression it couldn’t be good.

“What’s your point?” Stiles asked sharply, turning to her.

“Stop playing dumb. I know everything. Your plan, that this was part of it.”

“Witcher, what is this?” Derek lowly interjected, stepping closer to Stiles. His eyes flickered to Boyd, catching the way the younger vampire lingered beside Allison in solidarity. He had always been prepared to do whatever was necessary to protect Stiles—even if he had to confront Boyd to do so.

“Sorry, Derek.” Allison spoke frankly, “You’ve been had.”

Derek couldn’t stop himself from shifting to stand in front of Stiles, his fingers itching for another fight with the witcher—her words like ice through his heart.

Stiles wouldn’t. There was no way.

“My friend, please… You must listen to what Allison has to say,” Boyd said quietly, never taking his eyes off of Derek even as he moved to intercept him if need be.

“Stiles isn’t his real name. This is Mieczyslaw, and Mieczyslaw is cousin to Lydianna Henrietta, the Duchess of Toussaint—the woman you met last night.”

Something in Derek’s heart ached when he felt Stiles stiffen behind him at Allison’s mention of Lydia. He couldn’t deny that he had smelt something similar in Lydia’s blood—something that he had scented beneath the initial uniqueness of Stiles’ blood. He knew that, rationally, he could accept them to be blood related. His heart didn’t want to believe it.

Derek began to pace, making sure to keep Stiles to his back; out of danger, out of harm’s way. Protected. He could feel the anger rolling under his skin, trailing up his spine. His fangs itched at his gums. “Wh… What nonsense is this?”

“Mieczyslaw was the heir, before being banished as a child… But it seems he trekked back here recently. Moved into Dun Tynne and ran a vandaguild out of here,” the witcher spoke bluntly, her eyes following each of Derek’s steps.

Stiles glared at Allison. “You think you’ve got it all figured—”

“Sent a man called The Cintrian to Beauclair,” Allison interrupted him, not giving Stiles a second to speak. “To steal some wine for him, wine reserved for the ducal family. Cintrian led us to him. Caught him later stealing a jewel Mieczyslaw had gotten from his mother as a child.”

Derek stopped pacing, staring at the fire as the thoughts rushed through his head. It wasn’t true. What sort of human would think to even  _ try  _ manipulate a vampire? He wanted to laugh—he knew what kind of human. A dangerously intelligent one, something Stiles had proven himself to be time and again.

“Sorry, Derek. He used you. Part of his plan.”

“My name… is  _ Stiles _ ,” he spat quietly, fury lacing his words. He rejected his given name the day he had been cast out of Beauclair. He repressed the memories of his mother calling him her little Mischief—he refused to remember the happiness he once had.

Derek’s eyes went to Stiles, silently pleading for anything other than a confirmation.

But Stiles’ eyes were hard and unfeeling—until they met Derek’s. His glare softened, his expression pained and uncertain as his lips parted to offer an explanation.

Instead of answering, Stiles looked down in defeat.

A sharp exhale left Derek as he turned to the window, his fingers gripping the window pane as he looked at the night outside. The bodies littering the grounds that he and Boyd had murdered to help Allison, all for nothing.

All for a mastercrafted lie he had desperately fallen for.

Stiles’ footsteps echoed quietly, no doubt too soft for a human to hear, but his heartbeat was faster than Derek had ever heard it. He tried to beat down the fury he felt, turning his head to the sound of his approach, when a hand gently settled on his shoulder.

It was faster than Derek anticipated to move, red colouring his vision, his hand going to the throat faster than the blink of an eye. Hands scrabbled at his own, fingers trying to pry away from the skin when the red dissipated, leaving a terrified Stiles in its wake. Derek released him as fast as he could, but the sound of Stiles gasping for air rang in his ears.

The sickening, hollow feeling in Derek’s gut swelled with disgust—at himself. It was more intense than it had ever been, more so than the forced killings he did under the threat of Stiles’ life. He couldn’t take his eyes off of Stiles, unable to deny the truth, but there was more than just fear in Stiles’ expression. There was a fury of Stiles’ own, though it was not directed at Derek.

“You will come to Tesham Mutna and explain all. If you do not, I will raze Beauclair to the ground. This I promise you,” Derek steps towards Stiles, eyes lingering on the bruises already forming around the human’s neck. The sight of Stiles flinching away from him made him want nothing more than to cut his own hand off, to banish it for being the thing that hurt Stiles, even for a moment. Even after knowing that it was a lie—that their life together was nothing but a well planned lie. “You’ve three days. I shall be waiting.”

Stiles didn’t move from the wall, his eyes following Derek stalk towards the window before vanishing into a faint trail of smoke. His mind was racing with a thousand thoughts at once, trying to figure out his best course of action.

“He just fly off?” Allison asked in bewilderment, the silence in the room shattering.

“He did not wish to act rashly. He’s gone to soothe his nerves,” Boyd said, his stare feeling like judgement on Stiles’ skin. “And his wounded heart.”

Stiles had noticed Boyd halt the witcher from drawing her sword when Derek had him by the throat. It was blindingly obvious that Boyd would probably like nothing more than to see Stiles as a lifeless corpse. Derek was his friend, after all—they would have an unlimited lifetime to sort out their differences.

Stiles wanted to cry, thinking about Derek’s promise reassuring him that Boyd would love him. He wished he hadn’t shattered that promise.

Stiles slowly stepped towards the window, taking in the night sky and the darkness of the world. How he longed to see the beauty of this foul place, after so many years of avoiding it. He wished he could go back to that night in the tavern and confess to Derek what was to happen. He wondered, as he did most nights since then, if Derek could have single-handedly defeated Deucalion and his men,  _ and  _ saved his father. Even Lydia.

It was an impossible feat for any one man—nothing but a bard’s tale.

Allison spoke quietly, talking to Boyd, but now there was an urgency to it. “Think he’ll do it—make good on his threat?”

“I cannot say. He can be unpredictable when fury consumes him.”

“I’ll go to him,” Stiles rasped, voice hoarse.

Boyd looked at him with evident surprise, “Come again? After what he just…?”

“You don’t know Derek like I do,” Stiles said as he turned to face them, slowly gaining his strength back. He shook his head, knowing it was the right thing. If he didn’t, Derek would believe the worst of him. “If I don’t do as he says… he truly will destroy the city.”

“Seems you’ve got some last scraps of honor left,” Allison said, her words leaving a sour wake in Stiles’ chest.

“ _ Honor  _ means nothing in this godforsaken place,” Stiles sneered, his well reserved walls finally cracking, his resentment and fury finally rearing their heads. “Tell me, do you trust a trail of breadcrumbs so obviously laid out for you? You’re a fucking fool. Whatever Derek does now, is on you. If you had just let me explain—”

“Your cousin hired me to—”

“They were going to hurt Lydia—and my  _ father!  _ I had no choice!” Stiles whirled around on Allison. “If you had just let me explain to him, Derek wouldn’t be— he wouldn’t think—” He released a loud groan, pressing his hands to his eyes as he tried to hide his angry tears.

“There’s someone else helping you,” Boyd stated.

Stiles released a hysterical laugh. “You’re just like them,” he uttered. “Refuse to see the obvious truth.” He looked at Boyd and Allison. “I am the Cursed Prince. They needed the cover my story allowed. And yes, I was selfish and orchestrated for my mother’s pendant to be returned to me—but that is where my cooperation ended.” He turned to pace some, his actions similar to Derek’s. How he wished Derek was here now, to hear this long and twisted tale. “They found me in Nazair, with Derek. They waited until I was alone—when Derek was away, helping you,” he added, looking at Boyd. He was glad to see Boyd’s features crease with some emotion. “They said that they’d kill my father if I didn’t do what they said. They threatened to hire a witcher to track down Derek.”

Allison looked to Boyd. “Witchers can’t kill Higher Vampires,” she cautiously explained to Stiles.

“I didn’t know that at the time … I don’t think they even did,” Stiles nearly hissed at her. “Do you think if I knew that Derek was practically indestructible that I’d fall into their scheme?”

“Derek could have handled them,” Boyd replied.

“I know that now … but I was scared then,” Stiles forced himself to admit. “When I met Derek, I had lost  _ everything  _ I’ve ever known and loved—then he started to help me rebuild a life. And I was terrified that someone was going to take that away again. That they were going to take Derek away.” He shook his head.

“The second letter had your blood on it,” Allison started, taking pity on Stiles as she changed the subject.

“They cut my palm to put blood on the letters to prove they had me,” Stiles explained, offering up his hand for Allison to see the scar cutting into the pad of skin beneath Stiles’ thumb. “That was when I discovered their plan to go after Lydia last, and to pin it all on myself and Derek; produce our bodies as proof that they were the heros.” He released a weak laugh. “They were planning on Derek being an easy target once they killed me … what idiots.”

Allison turned to look out the window, catching sight of Lydia arriving. “This is going to be a disaster,” she muttered under her breath.

~*~

Stiles felt his stomach drop when he saw Lydia. He halted his steps, staring at his cousin surrounded by her knights. It was a reminder of why part of him wanted Derek to have succeeded in tearing the life from those men.

“Mieczysław,” Lydia breathlessly uttered when she saw him. She rushed passed her men, yanking away from Jackson when he reached a hand out to cautiously grab her. “Mieczysław!” She excitedly repeated when she reached him, throwing her arms around his neck as she pulled him in close. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

Stiles tensed at Lydia’s embrace, his hands clenching into fists. “Such concern,” he sharply uttered. “Is there an ounce of truth to it?”

Lydia pulled back from Stiles, caution in her movements. “You … you’re angry,” she commented, allowing her arms to drop down to her sides.

“Angry doesn’t even begin to explain what I am, Lydia,” Stiles answered her.

Lydia frowned at Stiles’ words, a worried crease tightening her brow. “You resent me, I get that—”

“ _ Resent _ you?” Stiles’ voice notched higher than normal. He released a cruel laugh. “I am angry  _ at you _ and your actions, Lydia. I don’t resent  _ you _ or your stupid crown,” he added a gesture towards the diadem braided into Lydia’s hair. “I wanted revenge on the Duchy. And I got it.”

Lydia looked shocked at Stiles’ words. “Mieczysław, what you’re saying is treasonous.”

“Treasonous,” Stiles spat the word back at Lydia. “Treasonous would be to sit in a corner and silently watch as someone you claim to love is brutalized.”

Lydia looked pained by Stiles’ contempt. “I was a child—”

“So was I!” Stiles yelled back at her. “You never cared—as long as you got what you wanted. And in the end, you did.”

“After your father abdicated, I was the only option left,” Lydia sharply uttered. “I sent knights out to every corner of the land; I send summons to every head of state; I petitioned our beloved cousin in Nilfgaard.” She shook her head. “ _ You  _ did not want to be found, Mieczysław.”

“But here I am, regardless,” Stiles bitterly replied. “The knights who have wronged me are dead. And there is still an assassination being plotted.”

Lydia looked from Stiles to Allison. “You haven’t caught the Beast?”

“Forget the Beast,” Stiles sharply stated before Allison could answer. “A group of men plan this assassination from the shadows—from within your circle of advisors.”

Lydia gently bit her lip. “That’s impossible,” she turned to Allison. “I need proof of the Beast’s death.”

“I told you to nevermind the Beast!” Stiles snapped at Lydia.

“And how do you know this?” Lydia demanded.

“Because I helped them plan it,” Stiles answered.

Lydia was startled by Stiles’ admittance. She looked to Allison.

Allison nodded, confirming Lydia’s fear.

“You helped these men?” Lydia asked, her voice sounding skeptical—as if she couldn’t believe that her beloved cousin would do such a thing. Despite the years and the rumors circling the Duchy, she still loved and cared deeply for Stiles.

“I did what I had to,” Stiles answered. “To survive.”

“You unleashed this beast on Toussaint,” Lydia countered. “Men have died, Mieczysław.”

“What those men did—” Stiles stopped himself, his expression scrunching up at the memories. “They hurt me, Lydia,” he offered instead. “They were meant to deliver me to our cousin, the Emperor. Instead, they left me in Caed Dhu—in nothing but thin rags, starved and weakened; bleeding from wounds they inflicted. They wanted me to die in the cold.”

Lydia looked sympathetic to Stiles’ words. “You should have come to me,” she softly spoke.

“Would your people have let me?” Stiles incredulously asked. “Had I not done everything that I’ve done, we would not be here speaking now.”

Lydia knew Stiles spoke the truth.

“I beg that you recant your contract on Derek,” Stiles started.

“Derek?” Lydia asked, confusion in her voice. She looked at Allison. “The Beast is … ” She grew angry when she saw the truth in Allison’s reluctant nod. “You lied to me! You  _ knew  _ it was him when we met?”

“I knew he was a High Vampire, Your Grace,” Allison corrected Lydia. “That it was Derek— well, I didn’t know at the time.”

Lydia was furious as she paced. “The disrespect,” she uttered, shaking her head. She turned to Allison, taking a rushed series of steps until she reached her. “I want that animal’s head, witcher. I want what I  _ paid _ for,” she harshly ordered.

“No,” Stiles argued, taking a step towards Lydia. He saw the knights rigidly reach for their swords. “Derek isn’t to blame. I am. He’s ordered me to meet him in Tesham Mutna—to put this all right.”

“Don’t be stupid, Mieczysław, he’ll kill you,” Lydia chastised Stiles, like a child.

“I would rather be dead than have you kill him,” Stiles angrily snapped at Lydia.

Lydia turned to look at Stiles. Her brow crinkled as she watched her cousin cower under her eyes, as if he was trying to shrink back and hide something he revealed. “You … you’re …  _ entangled _ with him,” she uttered in bewilderment.

“I love him,” Stiles defiantly stated.

“ _ Love _ him,” Lydia echoed with a lightly hysterical laugh. She turned in a circle, as if she was trying to walk away from such a statement. “He isn’t human, Mieczysław.”

“I don’t care,” Stiles replied. “That doesn’t matter to us.”

“Listen to yourself,” Lydia loudly countered. “You might as well be in love with a dog.”

“Don’t speak of him that way,” Stiles angrily replied. “Should we demean people for loving mages? Druids? Witchers?”

“This isn’t the same,” Lydia tiredly countered. “How could you do all this?” She pressed.

“I was happy—I wanted to keep it,” Stiles explained. He shook his head. “No, I wanted him.  _ He  _ made me happy. And men threatened to take that all away. I wasn’t going to let that happen again.”

“I’m sorry,” Lydia answered. “But he is a monster that has terrorized our people.” She took a steady breath before speaking her next words. “It is my duty to put them first, and order the witcher to finish her job in bringing me this Beast’s head.”

“He has a name,” Stiles angrily snapped at Lydia. “His name is Derek van der Hale, and he is no more a beast than you or me. All that he did, he did to protect me. Isn’t that what your precious knights claim to do for you?”

The noise of armor clanking was familiar—the sound of soldiers awkwardly enduring conversation they had to pretend never occurred.

Lydia pursed her lips, prepared to argue before remembering herself. She wouldn’t argue in front of guards—she would save her angered words for behind closed doors. “Despite the love I bear for you, I cannot give you mercy for him.”

Stiles looked at Lydia, his gaze cold and calculated. “I’m not sure if you even know what love means.”

Lydia stilled her chin, turning to look at Jackson. “Take him back to the palace,” she instructed. “Make sure he can’t escape to go running to this vampire.”

Stiles yanked his arm from the knight that dared to touch him. “You selfish brat! You can’t keep me from him,” he hissed at her. “I will go to Tesham Mutna to answer for this.”

“You will do what I command of you,” Lydia sharply countered. “I will not suffer another moment of your insolence. Take him away!” She commanded her men when she realized they were just staring at her.

Stiles did his best to get away from the men, knowing he couldn’t overpower five knights. But he didn’t make it easy for them, either.

Lydia waited for Stiles to be secured in the carriage before she looked at Boyd and Allison. “I want a full report. And I expect the Beast’s head, witcher.”

Allison frowned at Lydia. “Your Grace, there will be no more killings by him,” she explained. “He only committed those acts to keep Stiles safe—”

“According to Mieczysław’s own words, he was the one pulling the strings,” Lydia harshly whispered to Allison.

“A man named Deucalion—”

“Deucalion?” Lydia startled at the name. “You must be … mistaken,” she cautiously uttered.

“That is the name Stiles gave us,” Boyd answered.

“Stiles told you that a man named Deucalion arranged all this,” Lydia slowly stated.

“Yes,” Boyd answered. “And if we don’t bring Stiles to Tesham Mutna in three days, Derek will raze Beauclair to the ground for this.”

Lydia looked from Boyd to Allison. “Derek is truly the Beast of Beauclair?” She faintly asked.

“Unfortunately,” Allison replied. “Stiles was his lover—the one he had been looking for.” She saw the understanding in Lydia’s eyes. “This Deucalion managed to get ahold of Stiles and dangle him over Derek’s head.”

“Not another word,” Lydia sharply commanded, turning a fiery glare on Allison. “You have three days to bring me Derek van der Hale’s head. No more secrets, no more helping vampires. You will complete the contract we struck, witcher.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a brief description, from Stiles' own memories, that vaguely describes his treatment by the knights who escort him from Beauclair. I have updated the tags to reflect this change. More in the note at the end.

Stiles had waited more than a day, allowing Lydia to believe that she had managed to tame him. He planned for hours, going through every different outcome, before he was confident that he would succeed. He remembered the layout of the palace from when he was a child, and he doubted it had changed in the years he had been gone. He waited for the guards to change before making his move.

Stiles climbed out of his window, precariously making his way down the intricately designed architecture with the assistance of the sheets he tied together. He wanted to laugh at the men who had thought they built an impregnable marvel of a fortress.

Stiles made sure to tie the sheets against one of the decorative statues close to the palace’s wall. He wanted to guarantee that it wasn’t found, at least until morning. He was cautiously keeping an eye out for the guards as he hurried through the lush gardens. He was genuinely surprised when he collided into the body of another. He startled to attention, prepared to fight the person if necessary.

He was going to Tesham Mutna—he wouldn’t let this nightmare continue.

Allison released her hold on her sword hilt when she realized it was Stiles. “I’ll say that I’m surprised to see you here.”

Stiles firmly stood his ground. “My cousin believes she can keep me locked away. I’ll let her keep thinking that.”

Allison looked where Stiles had come from, seeing no guards on duty. “You’ve avoiding making a scene, it appears.”

Stiles looked away from her. “I’m going to Tesham Mutna,” he uttered. “I will meet Derek, and explain all of this to him.”

“You’ll leave Lydia in the company of the men behind it all?” Allison pressed.

“Then you believe me,” Stiles stated in a skeptical tone.

“I haven’t wasted the past days for nothing,” Allison replied. “Deucalion is a man after power, that was plain enough to see. But the fact that he is on the Duchess’s council makes it difficult to accuse him of wrongdoing.”

“Lydia is well aware of what has happened,” Stiles answered. “She knows what the men are capable of. How she handles the information I gave her is her own doing.”

“We should part soon,” Boyd stated as he approached the two of them. “We are losing the night, and it is a journey to Tesham Mutna.”

Stiles looked at Boyd in confusion. “You’re here to take me to Derek?”

“I want my friend to know the truth,” Boyd answered Stiles. “He is owed that much from you.”

Stiles frowned at that, looking away from Boyd. “Let’s go, then,” he firmly stated.

~*~

Tesham Mutna was beautiful, even in ruins. It was once a great fortress, before the conjunction of spheres, when vampires came into the world. Some vampires used the ruined fortress as a place to keep humans like livestock, to be fed on when needed. It had been abandoned some time ago, though no one knew why.

Stiles took small steps to walk towards the crumbling wall. He looked over the stone to see the rocky edges that led off the cliff and towards the ravine below. He looked up at the moon, taking in the beauty of its light shining brightly against the night sky.

For the briefest moment, Stiles thought about how lovely a place it would be to die. He thought of how the ruins were so like his life—once something revered and handed elaborate praise, only to have fallen into disrepair.

“It’s beautiful,” Stiles softly uttered. “But just a ruin like any other thing,” he bitterly countered.

Boyd made a displeased noise as he came to stand on equal ground with Stiles. “So sensitive, so aware,” he sarcastically commented. “What did Derek ever see in you?”

“I thought you already knew all that,” Stiles countered, looking at Boyd. “You’re the reason he wasn’t with me when Deucalion hatched his plan.”

“Blame others all you want,” Boyd replied. “Won’t change what you’ve done.”

“I know,” Stiles sharply stated. “I am terrified to be here, knowing what I did is irredeemable. But I owe Derek this much,” he looked away from Boyd, refusing to let either him or Allison see his tears. “I’m not going to run from it.”

They waited for what seemed like hours. The higher the moon got, the more likely it felt that Derek was not going to show up.

“Are you sure Derek will even know we’re here?” Allison asked Boyd in a hushed whisper. “What if we’re too late?”

“Derek will be able to track Stiles’ heartbeat if he’s within this location,” Boyd started. “Besides, he won’t act irrationally—”

“Like he didn’t act irrationally by choking Stiles,” Allison almost snapped.

“Have you ever loved, Allison?” Boyd asked instead of arguing.

Allison narrowed her eyes at Boyd. “If you love someone, you don’t act like that.”

“Derek has never loved before,” Boyd explained. “He is older than me, truthfully. But when it comes to social understandings of humans, Derek is … immature, in a way. He is unknowing in these interactions. Vampires are very forward with their feelings and intentions. There isn’t an understanding of what lying is—there is no need to among us.”

“Derek doesn’t understand lying?” Allison questioned in disbelief.

“He doesn’t understand why someone would willingly trick a person they cared for,” Boyd corrected Allison. His eyes wandered over to Stiles, watching the human calmly standing against the solid stone wall of the tower. “Derek formed a bond with Stiles—a bond that humans are incapable of understanding, or feeling.”

Allison followed Boyd’s gaze, looking at Stiles. “He fell in love with Stiles.”

“It was more than that,” Boyd explained. “Derek bonded with Stiles, making himself vulnerable to Stiles’ every whim and pleasure. I don’t even think Derek did so intentionally, not when your human lifespans are so small in comparison. Unless he planned to hibernate after Stiles’ death.”

“Why isn’t he just hibernating now?” Allison asked. “It would seem like the smart thing to do—hibernate until Stiles is dead from old age.”

“It’s complicated,” Boyd replied. “Derek’s bond with Stiles is what drove Derek to withhold himself from killing Stiles back at Dun Tynne. He could feel the pain that Stiles suffered from that—that’s what drives Derek to protect him despite his anger.” He sighed, looking at Allison. “If Stiles dies, the grief could drive Derek completely feral. He’d have no more control than your common bruxa, but much deadlier.”

Allison frowned at that. “We can’t reverse the bond?”

Boyd shook his head. “I’m afraid that vampires mate for life.”

Stiles was pacing when he saw the black smoke rushing up from the path that lead to the tower. He watched as it billowed and spilled through the foliage at a lightning speed. He knew it was Derek.

“Stiles,” Derek’s voice echoed.

Stiles turned towards Derek’s voice, searching him out. He didn’t startle when Derek practically walked out of the shadows, the vampire’s form materializing from the smoke. He looked at Derek, steeling his nerves.

“I’m surprised you came,” Derek started, his voice deeply hoarse, despite being his first words. It was as if he had been shouting. “Should I call you Mieczysław?”

Stiles frowned at Derek’s question, hating himself for putting such doubt in Derek. “I wasn’t lying in Dun Tynne,” he answered. “My name is Stiles. Prince Mieczysław died a long time ago.”

Derek turned from Stiles, his shoulders tensed as he made a few aborted attempts to pace. His anger was palpable, Stiles’ betrayal still a fresh wound. “I have one question for you,” he began, turning to face Stiles. He advanced towards him, every step matched the heavy thumping of Stiles’ heart. “Did you really feign it all?” He questioned. “Was our bond just … a ruse?”

“Derek,” Stiles gently spoke his name, reaching a hand up to touch Derek’s chest as he had a thousand times in the past. It had been a calming gesture Derek always welcomed.

Derek jerked his chest away from Stiles’ touch, refusing to accept his attempt at intimacy. “You lied to me,” he lowly seethed.

“It’s not that simple,” Stiles argued, retracting his hand away. He pretended that his heart didn’t hurt from Derek’s rejection. “They would have killed my father and Lydia,” he explained. “They would have killed you.”

“I cannot be killed by some  _human_ ,” Derek angrily growled, spitting out the last word with utter disdain.

“I didn’t know that,” Stiles passionately countered. “I was afraid of losing you,” he earnestly stated, his voice soft in his admittance.

Derek’s brow creased, his mind racing as he listened to Stiles’ heartbeat. He had been listening since before he revealed himself—Stiles’ heartbeat had yet to change with the telling skip of a lie. He forcefully shook his head. “You either deceived me, or you didn’t, Stiles,” he forcefully concluded. “You used me to kill those men,” he added with disgust at recalling the memories.

“Those men … do you know why they had been chosen?” Stiles softly asked. “Deucalion wanted it to look like I was behind it all—like I had been the one wanting revenge for what those men … ” He closed his eyes, taking in a sharp breath as he tried to push those memories away.

He remembered the cold of those nights he had been forced to travel from the palace. He had begged for his father, refusing to believe that he would let this happen. The knights were supposed to be noble—embodiments of the virtues that Toussaint prided itself on. But they were corrupted by greed and envy.

They made a game out of tormenting Stiles—the pampered little prince who cursed their land since his birth. They denied Stiles food and proper clothing, laughing as they watched him shiver away from the fire.

The men gripped his arm tightly as they pulled him this way and that. The stench of alcohol on their breath at night was overpowering as they told him it was his choice to sleep in the cold—that he could persuade them to give him a blanket.

Stiles resisted the cold for two nights before he broke.

It was a mixture of hot breath against his skin, a hand pressing his face into the ground, dirt beneath his fingernails as he struggled some, the pain of the unfamiliar.

Stiles could never wash away those feelings.

He remembered one of the knights arguing with the others, hearing accusations being spat back and forth, anger erupting between them. He didn’t suffer another night like the last, curled beneath his ratty blanket for warmth as he planned his revenge.

But that was before Derek. That was before Stiles stopped dreaming about Beauclair.

He forced himself to look at Derek now. He took a step into Derek’s space, grabbing hold of Derek’s hand. He wrapped Derek’s hand around his throat, leaving himself completely vulnerable.

Allison lurched from her spot when she realized what Stiles was doing. She started to rush forward when Boyd stopped her from intervening.

Derek stared down at his hand wrapped around Stiles’ throat. His claws were scraping against Stiles’ delicate skin, the smallest twitch of his fingers capable of tearing open the soft flesh and ending Stiles’ life.

“I didn’t lie to you when we were together,” Stiles stated. “I love you, I do.”

Derek looked down at Stiles’ chest—where he could hear Stiles’ heartbeat.

“I was born to the Duke and Duchess of Toussaint, their only child and heir. But I was born under an eclipse—a Black Moon,” Stiles started to explain. “And because of that, the people feared that I was cursed. After my mother’s death, Lydia’s parents worked to incite that fear. My father was forced to abdicate from the throne, and I was cast out of the Duchy.”

Derek took a deep breath, taking in Stiles’ scent to calm himself. He watched the tears fall from Stiles’ eyes, his anger dying down into a simmer at the sight.

“Those knights were charged with bringing me to the Emperor in Nilfgaard,” Stiles spoke again, his throat tightening as he remembered how terrified he had been of those men. “What they did to me … if I wanted for you exact my revenge—to deliver them a fate worse than death … I wouldn’t have to manipulate you,” he uttered, his vision blurred by tears. “You would have torn them apart like the animals they were if you knew what they did.”

Derek retracted his hand from Stiles’ throat, pulling out of Stiles’ grip. His hands were soft as they cradled Stiles’ face, his claws retracted as his thumbs brushed the tears away. “Stiles, I—” His voice cracked. He pressed a kiss to Stiles’ forehead as he pulled him in close. “I never should have left you alone,” he uttered.

Stiles trembled as he wrapped his arms around Derek’s waist, pressing into his embrace. He pressed his face into the curve of Derek’s neck. “I never want to leave your side,” he softly confessed. “Don’t leave me here in Toussaint.”

“Never,” Derek answered. He looked above Stiles’ head, seeing that Allison and Boyd were calm in their approach. He didn’t loosen his hold on Stiles, but gave Boyd an understanding look. He knew he couldn’t keep Stiles, not how he wanted to. He had scoured their ancient tomes, conversed with elves, mages, and even witchers alike, for some kind of hint at how to prolong Stiles’ life past the few rare decades humans had to suffer through. And he found nothing. He knew he would grieve the day Stiles died—he would turn feral and give into his darker urges.

That would be the day Derek returned to the Unseen Elder to face an eternal slumber.

Boyd watched how Derek wrapped around Stiles, knowing that Derek had accepted Stiles’ fault as completely forgivable. It was glaringly obvious that his friend was still much in love.

“They still have my father,” Stiles softly confessed, turning his head to look at Allison and Boyd. He didn’t let go of Derek, either.

“They don’t,” Allison answered. “That’s why Boyd and I were a day late in getting you from Beauclair,” she offered in explanation when Stiles looked at her in confusion.

Stiles looked at Derek before turning his sights back to Allison and Boyd. “I’d like to see him.”

~*~

John hadn’t seen Stiles in over a decade. It was torture to not know what happened to his son—his only child. There wasn’t a day that passed where John didn’t think about that day, and what he could have done differently.

John had been hunting, something he did to distract his mind from Claudia’s loss. He remembered Stiles’ plea that he not kill the deer, a soft innocence consuming the boy’s features.

Yet, when it came time to release the drawstring, John couldn’t.

His breathing was calm. He could see his warm breath in the cold wind, nothing but puffs of billowing white that vanished in a second.

The deer turned its head to look at John, its antlers almost catching in the low hanging branches of the tree.

John strengthened his hold on the drawstring as the deer stared back at him.

And then he saw it.

A small newborn deer pranced up to the buck, its legs gangly and awkward for it to control. It was completely unaware of John and the impending threat as it looked up at the buck.

The buck’s attention didn’t falter from John.

John eased his hold on the drawstring, lowly cursing under his breath as he loosely hung onto his bow and arrow, dropping his aim.

The deer vanished into the woods once the buck steered the fawn towards the thicker wood.

John looked down out of embarrassment, knowing that Stiles’ words had swayed him, that he couldn’t look his son in the eye and lie to him when he returned home. He was resigned to go home empty handed.

John’s motion to turn halted when he recognized the flower that was still blooming despite the sudden cold turn in weather.

It was a lily—Claudia’s favorite flower. The petals were an ashen white, the inside stained a dark red, darker than any John had ever seen. And he had seen almost every variant of the lilies’ colors, thanks to Claudia’s love for the flower.

Lilies were uncommon in Toussaint, despite Claudia’s attempts to make them grow. As a result, Stiles found a fondness for the flower as well, often times spending hours with Claudia in the royal gardens as they tried to get the flowers to survive at least one season.

Claudia’s favorite lilies were white.

John knelt down, plucking the flower’s stem from the main patch, his thoughts focused on Stiles. He had wished he could give Stiles as much happiness as Claudia had with the simplest of flowers. He wondered if the flower would sadden Stiles more, but it was worth a try.

If only John knew that Stiles wouldn’t be there when he returned, he never would have left Stiles in Beauclair alone.

“Where is my son?” John lowly demanded when the council of lords tried to calm him.

“He has been taken to Nilfgaard—for the good of Toussaint,” one lord dared to answer.

“How dare you,” John seethed. The lily in his hand felt like a hot brand on his skin the angrier he became. “Parrish,” he called the young knight to attention, turning to face him. “Ride out to those men, and tell them to bring my son back here.”

“Right away, Your Grace,” Parrish respectfully bowed. He started to turn, prepared to follow John’s orders when he was stopped by another knight.

“Johnathan Noah Stilinski of Beauclair, you are in no place to give orders anymore,” another lord instructed.

John turned to see that it was Lord Deucalion that spoke. “I am still the Duke of Toussaint, and I will not allow my child to be—”

“You have been outvoted,” Deucalion simply replied.

“The people will be outraged by this,” John began to argue.

“The people live in fear of Mieczysław,” another lord commented. “He has driven our hands to act. You have done nothing but condone his dangerous behavior.”

“He’s a child!” John angrily snapped.

“He is a manipulator,” Deucalion replied. “He tricked those poor boys into fighting—drove a brother to fratricide.”

John knew of the incident that lead to the visiting noble’s sons turning on one another.

Stiles had told him the whole thing, crying as he curled up against John. He sobbed as he confessed to flirting with the boys, but that Lydia had dared him to. That Lydia was the one to write the letter confusing the boys into thinking the worst—that only one of them could have Stiles. Confessing to kissing one of the boys out of curiosity, knowing that he’d never be allowed to pursue a relationship like that. How he and Lydia had laughed at the mischief. Then the news came of what happened, and Lydia turned ashen pale before running to her parents to tell them that Stiles had done it all.

Stiles pleaded with John not to reveal what Lydia had done with the letter. He said she was scared, and that he didn’t blame her.

“The only person to blame for that boy’s death is his brother,” John fiercely stated, condemning the nobleman’s actions. He had seen the letter the man sent Stiles, having torn it up and burnt it himself, refusing to allow Stiles to see it—the man’s words regarding his “love” for Stiles had unsettled John’s nerves, and he didn’t want unnecessary guilt on Stiles’ part.

The lily had been forgotten, his thoughts racing with nothing but concern for Stiles. If they wouldn’t let him keep Stiles in the palace, then he would forfeit the throne. He was proud of his people when they reacted with upheaval, disputing such an outcome. It made signing his abdication decree bittersweet.

John tried his best to find Stiles, grief that spoiled into anger shot through his gut when he reached Nilfgaard only to discover that Stiles had never arrived. He was relieved when his cousin offered him all the assistance he needed in finding his son.

It didn’t matter, though.

Even with the Nilfgaardian Emperor’s resources, Stiles was lost.

John never gave up, turning his back on the Duchy that had cast both Stilinskis out. He cursed them, wishing he had done a better job of identifying his enemies sooner—before they took Stiles.

Everything changed a year ago, when John received a letter addressing the need for a Duke’s help.

“Your Grace,” Parrish started when he entered the room John.

“I’m not a Grace anymore, Jordan,” John calmly replied. He turned to look at the younger man. He wondered if he was ever so young and hopeful. He had been grateful that Parrish came to check on him from time to time, knowing that even his loneliness needed to subside from time to time. He was glad that Parrish chose to transfer to Nilfgaard, away from the corruption plaguing Toussaint’s once respected chivalry.

Parrish cleared his throat. “Apologies, sir,” he offered, hating how wrong it felt to address John as anything less. “Her Lady Duchess has asked that you be received properly by the guard.” He offered the letter to John.

John scanned the letter, his brow creasing as he made sense of the details. “Deucalion writes to ask for me to help Lydia,” he concluded, a scoff in his voice. “The man steals my child from me, and now he wants my help polishing  _his_ throne. Sealing his letters with Lydia’s own seal, no less,” he scoffed with disgust.

“Perhaps Mieczysław has returned home,” Parrish answered with uncertainty.

“Mieczysław will never go back there,” John answered.

“Deucalion should know where he is,” Parrish concluded. “You could bargain your help for that knowledge.”

John knew Parrish was right—the only way he would find Mieczysław now would be if he miraculously came upon him, or twisted the truth from Deucalion.

He never imagined that he would be the one to be ransomed against Mieczysław.

~*~

“I want that man removed from my sight,” John lowly demanded, regardless of Lydia’s presence.

“Uncle,” Lydia began.

“He orchestrated all this,” John almost snapped, making a general gesture around them. “He schemed—he got your parents to agree to putting you on the throne.”

Lydia looked concerned, an ashen paleness falling over her. She turned to look at Deucalion, observing the man carefully. “You did this?” She asked, her voice firm despite the wavering of her emotions.

“Your Grace,” Deucalion started, clearly uneasy since seeing John present at the meeting. “This man is warped by his loss of your throne—”

“I am not interested in another of your lies, Deucalion,” Lydia harshly snapped. “My uncle has always cared less about this title than family. I demand the truth. Did you orchestrate this? Did you use blackmail to force a Higher Vampire into slaying knights of Toussaint?”

“Your Grace,” Jackson started, knowing that he was intruding on the moment. “The witcher has returned, with Mieczysław in her company.”

John turned his attention towards Jackson, looking passed the guard to see the doors.

“Bring them in,” Lydia firmly stated, her eyes never leaving Deucalion. “I will have the truth from them.”

John was the first to react when he saw Stiles. He took an abortive step forward, almost believing that it wasn’t real—telling himself that he was foolish for thinking such a thing.

Stiles was no longer the child John remembered. He was a grown man, his features sharper than the childish curves he once had. His hair was a messy disarray, nothing maintaining the unruly locks. He still had Claudia’s eyes and mirroring beauty marks.

Then there was the stranger next to Stiles.

The man was practically glued to Stiles’ shadow. His features browbeaten and dark, but a type of sad longing lingered there too. He wore dark toned clothes, a leather coat that was often worn by those of unscrupulous nature.

Whoever the man was, Stiles was at ease with him at his back.

“Papa,” Stiles breathlessly uttered, spurring himself into quickly moving. He rushed over to his father, leaving Derek behind.

John moved forward, embracing Stiles tightly. He clung to his son, holding him as if he would disappear should he relent just a little. “Mieczysław,” he softly whispered, as if it was a prayer of thanks for finally being reunited.

Stiles tightly closed his eyes as he hugged onto his father.

“Witcher,” Lydia started as she looked away from her cousin and uncle. “I trust you have good news for me.” Her eyes immediately went to Derek. “Considering those present,” she added, keeping eye contact with Derek.

“Your Grace,” Allison started, offering a respectful bow. “Boyd and I have found evidence of a set up,” she admitted. She reached a hand out to Boyd, taking the pieces of parchment they had found at John’s hidden location. She flipped through them until she came to the most damning one. “This one bears your seal,” she offered the parchment to Lydia.

Lydia almost snatched it out of Allison’s hands, fury rising in her gut. She whirled around on the council of lords, startling the old men. “You dare use  _my_ seal for this,” she lowly seethed. “You planned this— you used  _my name_ to try and harm  _my family_ ,” her voice rose in anger at every word as she waved the paper around.

“This one, Your Grace,” Allison filled the silence as she offered another parchment with orders. “Has the names of those killed, and a descriptive order to frame Mieczysław Stilinski and Derek van der Hale.”

Lydia took the other paper, her eyes honing in on the signature.

“Signed by Deucalion,” Allison stated aloud, looking at the man.

“Guards!” Lydia angrily shouted, making sure not to crumple the papers in her hands.

It happened in a flurry of actions. The guards were startling into motion when they saw the blade being brandished. Lydia was unsuspecting of her own council being filled with serpents.

Derek wasn’t sure if it was his own stupidity that lead to his actions being slowed, or if he secretly harbored a desire to watch the entire Duchy of Toussaint crumble for what they had done to Stiles. But he knew it was stupid to hesitate, even for a moment. He knew Boyd kept back out of respect for the human’s code of conduct--to reveal oneself as a monster, even to help, was to brandish a target.

Derek wasn’t going to react, his body languid and slowed in action.

Until he realized Stiles was moving towards the chaos.

Stiles reacted on instinct alone, grabbing Lydia and twirling her out of danger. He used his own body as a shield for her. He felt the blade cut through his back, tearing through the muscle of his shoulder. He cried out in pain, reaching a hand up to touch the blade that was protruding below his collarbone. Every breath hurt. His thoughts were rushing when he realized that the blade wasn’t moving.

Derek had his arm around Stiles’ waist, holding him gently as he kept Stiles from staggering. He had only a few seconds to react, reaching Stiles just in time to put himself in the blade’s way. He wasn’t counting on it hitting Stiles though. He held Stiles’ weight in one arm as he gracefully extracted the blade from Stiles with great care.

Stiles cried out in pain, feeling the blade leave his body. His grip on Derek’s arm around his waist was rough, his nails biting down into Derek’s coat.

“Boyd,” Derek sharply yelled to him, uncaring of the guards fawning over Lydia and arresting the conspirators. He needed the blade out of his back if he was going to help Stiles at all.

Boyd was by Derek’s side, taking hold of the blade’s hilt to yank out of Derek’s back. He distanced himself once he realized that Stiles was bleeding, the smell of blood hitting him hard as he forced himself away.

The blade had pierced through Derek’s chest, where his heart should have been if he was human. The blade’s silver hurt very little, Derek’s body never knowing the sensitivity most other creatures had to silver. The blood started to pool in the wound, Derek’s body knitting the hole left by the blade back together.

Derek paid little attention to his own wound, instead applying pressure to Stiles’ wound.

Stiles grabbed at Derek’s arm as he was lowered to the ground. He wanted to scream and cry out his frustrations—he just found his father, and he was going to die in Derek’s arms. He let Derek lay him down on the marble, his limbs becoming limp and uncertain.

“It’s not my blood, you fools!” Lydia angrily yelled at the guards when they kept trying to find a wound on her to explain the blood splattered on her dress. She shoved the guards away, crawling across the marble flooring in order to get to Stiles. “Call for a healer!” She shouted when she saw all the blood.

“Mieczysław,” John voice lightly called, moving to have Stiles’ head rest in his lap. “Just hang on,” his voice shakenly pleaded.

Stiles closed his eyes tightly, trying to calm his breathing, his words disappearing. It was getting harder and harder to breath, his mind fading with every passing second. He was losing too much blood.

Derek looked at Allison. “Do something,” he demanded the witcher.

Allison looked from Stiles to Derek. “I can’t do anything.”

“Your potions,” Boyd started.

“The last person I gave Swallow to who hadn’t undergone our mutations suffered nights in agony,” Allison countered, almost glaring at Boyd. She had thought about it the moment she saw Stiles was the one wounded.

“Agony is worth living,” Lydia pleaded with Allison, her grip on Stiles’ hand tight.

“He won’t be himself, if he survives it,” Allison answered, her voice holding a soft sorrow in it. “His mind will be blank, as if he isn’t even there. The pain wipes it out.”

Derek looked at Boyd.

Boyd’s eyebrows furrowed, his features twisting in protest to whatever Derek’s stare conveyed. He closed his eyes, ultimately nodding before turning to Allison. “Give him the potion.”

Allison looked at Boyd like he was crazy. “He’ll have to be treated afterwards—”

“I’ll care for him,” Derek firmly stated, his eyes downcast to Stiles. “I have an eternity to live, and I will dedicate that time to caring for him.” He looked up at Allison. “If he dies now, I will hold true on my promise, witcher.”

_I will raze Beauclair to the ground. This I promise you._

Allison hesitated before finally relenting. She produced the potion, getting both John and Derek to help her administer it to Stiles.

Then they had to wait, as Stiles’ mind drifted in and out of subconsciousness, his limbs twitching every now and again. After the healers managed to stabilize Stiles’ wound, they had moved Stiles to one of the royal rooms—a room that had once belonged to Stiles when he lived in the palace.

Derek stayed by Stiles’ side after he placed him down on the bed. He entwined his fingers with Stiles’ own, keeping a steady breathing as he monitored Stiles’ vitals.

“What is he doing?” Allison asked as she watched Derek. She could see the pulsing black veins under Derek’s skin.

“Every vampire has a unique ability,” Boyd started. “Derek’s is to heal others, in a way.” He slightly frowned at the memories of Derek healing him, bringing him back from the brink of death. “He takes the pain and wounds inflicted on another, bearing the brunt of the trauma.”

“And because he’s a Higher Vampire, he heals,” Allison concluded.

“He heals, but it doesn’t mean the recipient will heal,” Boyd answered. “I’ve seen Derek use this ability to ease the suffering of those dying.” He looked from Stiles to Allison.

“He’s taking Swallow’s poison out of Stiles’ body,” Allison sounded amazed at the feat.

Boyd nodded. “It’s a painful process, but one that he’s willing to endure for Stiles.” His brow furrowed, wondering what Stiles’ fate would ultimately be. “I hope your witcher potion works,” he commented.

“For everyone’s sake,” Allison concluded, knowing that if Stiles died now, there truly would be a beast brought down on Beauclair.

~*~

A large festival was held in Allison’s honor, a celebration of the witcher’s success in unveiling the threat to Toussaint’s Duchess.

John had been disgruntled in attending the events. He wished to ignore the people laying praise on Lydia while still observing Stiles with fear. He wanted them to know the truth—if it wasn’t for Stiles, they would be mourning the loss of their beloved Duchess.

Stiles was dressed appropriately, forgoing the light armor he often wore in the past years. He was dressed in an elegant doublet, the Toussaint crimson and gold were blazing across the chest and sleeves. The sleeves had sewn open slits that ran from his biceps down to be tied at his wrists, revealing the sleeves of his white undershirt beneath. The collar was black, properly propped up as it highlighted his bared neck.

Stiles hated the doublet. It reminded him of who he had been born to be instead of who he was. He felt marginalized by those present, as if he was on display to be looked at instead of conversed with. He had taken a blade meant for their Duchess, but it didn’t erase his birthright—the Cursed Prince born under the Black Moon.

It was discovered that Deucalion and the others never succeeded in disinheriting Stiles from the throne. And some feared Stiles would push for his right to dethrone Lydia. If any one of them truly knew Stiles, they would see the hatred and contempt he held for the Duchy.

Stiles looked down at his wine goblet, frowning as he stared down at the dark liquid sloshing around. He had longed since childhood to sample the sacred Sangreal—wine reserved for the Ducal table—but now it tasted the same as any other wine he drank, with a bitter aftertaste to it. He wanted nothing more than to return to those days in the taverns by the crossroads with Derek.

Derek had left after Stiles recovered. He disappeared before the Duchy could try to charge him with the murders and title of “Beast of Beauclair.” He left without a goodbye, and Stiles knew why.

Though hope had blossomed in Stiles’ chest when he heard about the last and final murder. The knight had been killed the same night Derek left Stiles’ bedside. There was no grandeur to the killing, no overly macabre meaning to the remains being displayed. The former knight had been killed in his own home, the door practically torn off the hinges and broken into splinters. The blood trailed from the bedroom, as if the man had tried to escape his attacker.

The knight had been disemboweled. And castrated. A letter in the knight’s handwriting confessed to his many crimes, including his mishandling and betrayal of the Stilinski family.

Stiles knew it had been Derek. And part of it hoped it meant Derek had truly forgiven him.

“That’s a very disappointed face,” Lydia commented as she came to stand beside Stiles. She was glad that her ladies in waiting dismissed themselves once she approached Stiles.

Stiles looked up at Lydia, his faint smile disheartened as he turned to look around them. “There’s no need for you to pretend—no one here to see such pleasantries.”

Lydia frowned at that. “I do care, Mieczysław,” she uttered. “I was not the one that drove your lover away,” she added in a hushed tone. “Even if he wasn’t to blame for the murders—which he still had a part in, I may remind you—he will always be a Higher Vampire, and you are still a Prince of Toussaint.”

Stiles didn’t look at Lydia. “I never wanted to be a Prince of Toussaint.”

Lydia sighed. “I’m sorry,” she truthfully stated. “If I could have made him stay, I would have.”

Stiles wished he could blame Lydia for Derek’s departure. But he knew the truth—Derek left because of him. He had betrayed Derek, twisting Derek’s love for him no matter how passive he was in the act. “I won’t stay here, Lydia,” he tiredly admitted, finally turning to look at her. “I will turn my compass elsewhere.”

Lydia hesitated before sadly nodding. “Whatever you believe is best for you, I accept.”

Stiles released a heavy breath of relief. “Thank you.”

Lydia quickly took a few steps forward, pulling Stiles into a hug. “I missed you, Mieczysław, I truly did,” she whispered to him, like just like all the other secrets they used to share as children. “I can’t undo what happened, but I can try to give you some of the happiness we stole from you.”

“Thank you,” Stiles softly answered. He let her go, offering her the best smile he could muster. He watched her take her leave, her attention pulled away by some important diplomat. He didn’t envy Lydia for her role in Toussaint, he pitied her. He took his leave of the ballroom, offering a smile to his father as he gestured that he was going to the gardens.

Stiles kept to himself as he watched the different groups of people conversing with one another. He set his goblet down on one of the high stone walls, leaving it to be retrieved with the others. He walked along the narrow pathways, keeping an eye out for the flower he was seeking out.

A tightness pulled at his heart when Stiles saw that the lilies had been replaced. He had hoped to see them, just one more time. He felt defeated as he moved to sit on the bench. It was the same bench his mother had sat on all those times before, when she would finish pruning the lilies to hoist Stiles up into her lap. They would laugh about their shared time, planning out their next batch.

These lilies were the last that Claudia planted, and now they were gone. Just like her.

Stiles bowed his head, pressing his face into his hands as he fought back the burning tears. He hated himself for every stolen moment his birth had robbed him of. He hated the people of Toussaint for being so blind to the whims of entitled men. He furiously wiped at his eyes, wishing he wasn’t so emotional over some silly flowers. He ran his sleeve under his nose, trying to make himself look more presentable.

A handkerchief was offered in an extended hand. The material was a pristine white, letters embroidered in the corner.

Stiles released a bitter laugh, reaching out to take the offered handkerchief. “Thanks, I guess,” he uttered, wiping at his eyes and dabbing under his nose.

“Would I regret to know the origins of such tears?”

Stiles quickly looked up, snapping to attention once he recognized whose voice it was. He moved to stand, his motions quick and lacking grace. “Derek,” he breathlessly uttered, unsure if his heartbreak was making him imagine things.

Derek was saddened when he saw that Stiles was crying alone in the garden. He had come to check up on him again, unable to keep further than a guard’s station away.

“You came back,” Stiles uttered, unsure what it meant to have Derek here with him.

“In truth, I never left,” Derek replied. “I couldn’t.”

Stiles took a step towards Derek, clenching the handkerchief tightly in his hand.

“I found myself overcome with grief at the thought of losing you,” Derek explained, subconsciously taking a step that matched Stiles’ own to bring them closer together. “I thought I had to distance myself—make you hate me, even.”

Stiles shook his head. “I wouldn’t hate you.”

“The distance made it worse,” Derek continued. He reached a hand out, his gesture was a gentle one as he ran his fingertips through Stiles’ hair. He watched the motion closely, mesmerized how the simple action felt like a great deal more. “Every step was agony. I resigned myself to stay hidden here, just to be close to you.”

Stiles leaned into Derek’s touch. “You don’t have to hide in the shadows,” he answered.

Derek shook his head. “Lydia was right,” he reluctantly admitted. “No matter what, I will always be a Higher Vampire. And you are still the Prince of the Toussaint. Even if these weren’t so, we will never be accepted.”

“Because we are both men, I’m not allowed to have you?” Stiles scoffed. “They care about their bloodlines and their politics.” He reached his hand up to place on Derek’s heart. “I  _choose_ to be with you. That is the fate I’ve always wanted. Not this palace.”

Derek reached for Stiles, pulling him into a heated, and long overdue, kiss.

~*~

John watched, from his spot on the balcony, as Derek offered his handkerchief to Stiles. He had felt a twinge of protectiveness pull at his chest. But he knew he had nothing to fear—not after witnessing the way Derek healed Stiles. He had seen plenty of men wounded and beyond help, and when he saw the blade stab through Derek’s chest and still hit Stiles, John was certain both men were doomed.

John witnessed the ease in which Derek suffered the blade being removed from his body before paying attention to Stiles. He had watched as the Beast of Beauclair—a Higher Vampire, and Stiles’ lover—healed instead of killed. He had learned his own lesson that day—some monsters were more human than he thought possible.

John had felt defeated when he learned of Derek’s unexpected departure from Stiles’ bed. He had watched the vampire tirelessly remain vigilant through the nights, draining Stiles’ pain away and healing him. He also saw the pain in Stiles’ tears when his son was informed of Derek’s disappearance.

John turned his attention away from the pair when he saw them kiss, giving them the privacy they deserved. He saw it as the opportunity for freedom that Stiles had been robbed of.

It was easier to part with one’s child when you knew they ran after a fate much happier than the one dealt to them.

~*~

They traveled far away from Toussaint and the tales about the Beast of Beauclair and the Cursed Prince. They kept away from others, only passing by the crowded streets of a crossroads when it was a necessity.

They found a pleasant villa, away from the pressing eyes of the Duchy, and the disapproving eyes of those who didn’t know differently. They would sleep to well passed noon, some days they only left the room for food. They would take lazy strolls through the woods in the afternoons.

Stiles kept a small garden, lilies would blossom in abundance each year. And Derek stayed by Stiles’ side.

For only death could part such a bond.

And Derek refused to accept such an ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Past Non-con/Rape: Stiles was sexually assault by one, if not more, of the knights who were escorting him. There is no in-depth description of what transpires, but it is alluded to. He is around 14 at this time.
> 
> As for the "open ending", I didn't want to leave it on a bitter note with the fact that Stiles is human with a mortal lifespan. However, it may not be said that Stiles eventually gets a prolonged life, but ... he does. Let's just say ... the witcher potion gave him a longer lifespan ... until Derek discovers another way.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this fic :)


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